


our chemistry's irrefutable (and i'll love you till you die)

by Thegaygumballmachine



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Authority kink?, F/F, Season/Series 01, basically this author wanting to fuck laura roslin and writing this to pretend to be kara, but like kara clearly doesnt mind, degradation and dirty talk also, madam president is a full bottom i said what i said, military kink ig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-01
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2020-04-06 07:07:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19057711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thegaygumballmachine/pseuds/Thegaygumballmachine
Summary: This is not Caprica; she is dying and bitter and more than a little sexually frustrated, and Kara Thrace knows better than anyone how to frak a woman into forgetting.





	our chemistry's irrefutable (and i'll love you till you die)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [UbiquitousMixie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/UbiquitousMixie/gifts).



> This was originally set during season four, but some convoluted research to do with numbers and timeline led me to put it nearer the beginning. Title from Gabbie Hanna's 'Pillowcase'.
> 
> My first foray into this fandom - concrit welcome, particularly surrounding characterization.
> 
> (as for the dedication: it appears you ship literally everything I do, and I appreciate your screeching with me + fueling my growing Roslin addiction :p)

“You wanted to see me, Madam President?”

 

It would’ve been mid-afternoon. Laura doesn’t know how that translates to military time, but she knows she’d have been going through a stack of essays with a scalding cup of tea, right on the edge of becoming too frustrated to be impartial and drowning the paper in red. Birds might have been collecting on her balcony, and she might have listened to the news on the radio, or, if she didn’t have the attention for it, a station that played classical music.

 

The starfield beyond the tinted windows of the _Colonial One_ is static and disorienting, even still, even now. She’s staring out at it purposely, caught up in the concept of time.

 

She tries to remember something of herself —or rather, who she was— every day as she worries over the remaining 50,000 members of humanity and, just now, Lieutenant Kara Thrace, who is standing at parade rest precisely in the middle of her carpet.

 

“I did,” she says, and stretches, catlike. There is warmth in her cadence and suggestion beneath it, barely there to someone who might not know her.

 

She isn’t quite sure how well Kara truly knows her yet, but the arch of her brow suggests that she’s been paying at least some attention. She glances up then, leans back in her chair just so. Every move she makes is slow and lazy, almost lethargic.

 

Kara shifts her weight, swallows, and waits.

 

“Starbuck,” she says, very deliberately, feeling it out. Her tongue curls around it in a way that makes her want to say it again, but she doesn’t— instead, she runs a finger across her bottom lip, thoughtful and provocative at once. “Everyone has something different to say about you, Lieutenant, do you know that?”

 

“Yes, sir,” says Kara, bemused. There’s this edge of cockiness that comes to her in confusion, and Laura laughs, quiet and short, watches her through hooded eyes.

 

“I expect you do. Do you want to know what I have to say?”

 

It takes a beat for her to swallow her pride, but she does, and Laura beams.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

——

 

Roslin says everything in subtext.

 

She calls Kara brave, and daring, and insufferably stubborn; she does so as she crosses her legs and sips at a drink she seemed to have forgotten at her side, eyeing the perfect imprint her lipstick leaves behind. She says Kara is a good soldier, when she follows orders, and tell her, would she follow the president’s if asked?

 

Nothing in her tone gives her away, but there’s a glint in her eye and a restlessness to her pose that leaves Kara in no doubt of what she means, what she wants.

 

“Depends on the order, Madam Prez.”

 

Roslin purses her lips and drains the glass of its contents. Chips of ice tinkle, bell like, when she sets it down with a touch more force than strictly necessary.

 

The setting is purposely sparse, Kara thinks— there’s no desk for either of them to hide behind, no distractions or interruptions to derail what hangs in the air between them. This is not an office, nor is it a bedroom: it’s somewhere in between, personal without private.

 

“I see,” says Roslin, with the barest of stutters.

 

Kara nods, and begins to.

 

——

 

She doesn’t give an order.

 

“I’d very much like you to touch me,” is what she eventually says. An unspoken plea, a polite airiness, but no order, and Kara’s eyes narrow. There is no surprise in that, though there might be a touch of annoyance.

 

“Is that so?”

 

She nods. Kara purses her lips, takes two steps forward, and assumes the same position again, head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

 

“Okay. See, I don’t think that’s really what you want. I _could_ play the goody-goody soldier girl and give you some frakked up kind of worship, but if you needed that you’d go to Lee.”

 

She presents it with the air of thinking out loud, never letting her gaze waver for even a moment. Laura feels herself tense, bristle, but at the same time, an undeniable edge of arousal washes over her, leaving her hanging in a strange sense of limbo.

 

She’s intrigued, hates it, doesn’t say a word.

 

“No, Madam President,” Kara says, with the slightest trace of a sneer. It could be mistaken for resentment, but Laura reads a rough kind of excitement in it, slowly feels this perversion of a title she hates warming her from the inside out. “You want me to frak you. Hard enough to hurt. Until you’re _begging_ me to give it to you. And you know I’m the only one who’ll do it.”

 

And, damn it all, she’s exactly right.

 

“No, I don’t,” Laura says, as a matter of course. It’s flimsy and thin when held to the light, and she licks her lips on the end of the _t,_ curling her fingers into the edges of the armrests.

 

“Yes, you do,” says Kara, suddenly criminally close, and threads her hands into Laura’s hair, a feral smirk curving her lips.

 

——

 

Kissing the president is a sensation Kara can’t begin to describe.

 

It’s wild and breathless and so many other things, but most of all, it’s intoxicating — Laura Roslin yielding to her with her whole body, trusting her with that, is impossible, incomparable. She roughens it, sends the knowledge that Roslin tastes like expensive Caprican whiskey and just a hint of sage to the back of her mind before she does something completely idiotic like getting attached to it.

 

“Kara,” she gasps, and it’s long in her mouth, _Kah-ra,_ and it twists something deliriously addictive in Kara’s stomach, feathering out warmth to every part of her.

 

“Sir,” she says, “you call me sir or Lieutenant Thrace.”

 

Roslin’s mouth drops open and her eyes screw shut, like just the thought makes the whole of her body thrum with pleasure, and maybe it does. There’s this minute arch of her back, this drawn tension to her limbs, that makes Kara wonder.

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

It’s breathy and the end of it snags on a tiny, choked _oh_ that she clearly tried to hold back and, _gods_ , that’s so much worse. Kara’s breath catches and she hums to cover it, her hands overlapping Roslin’s on the warming leather of the chair.

 

“Now, _Laura_ ,” she whispers, leaning right into her ear and nipping at the spot just below like they’ve done this many times before, “be a good girl and say it to my face.”

 

——

 

On Caprica, she tells herself, she’d never have been so easily taken apart by a boorish, cavalier viper pilot. She would have kept her authority about her and sent Kara out with a reprimand far sooner than let her take this much control.

 

This is not Caprica; she is dying and bitter and more than a little sexually frustrated, and Kara Thrace knows better than anyone how to frak a woman into forgetting.  

 

“Say what,” she whispers, and meets Kara’s eyes. She means it— her head spins too much to properly think, to scramble for what her self-made tormentor wants of her next. She tilts her head unconsciously, gives a breathless, tight sigh when there is not only a lick, but a full, unapologetic _bite._

 

“That you want me to frak you.”

 

She says it slowly, enunciating with total care as though Laura were a helpless child. She abhors how it makes her shudder, how this clipped degradation from military lips soaks her panties clean through.

 

“I do, I want—“

 

Her voice shakes. She licks her lips, regulates her breathing best she can with Kara mouthing across her collarbone. She longs to run her hand through short, shaggy hair, but doubts it would be appreciated and digs her nails into the armrests instead.

 

“Go on. You can do it.”

 

“I want you to frak me, sir.”

 

Without so much as a by-your-leave, Kara pulls her panties down and presses two fingers inside her. Laura can’t help but moan, short and sharp in the stale air as they find a rhythm in tandem.

 

“ _Oh_ ,” she gasps, and Kara smirks, rewards her with a thumb pressing perfect on her clit.

 

“You like that, huh?”

 

“Yes, _gods,_ yes.”

 

Kara swirls her thumb then, and puts all her weight into it; there’s no more buildup, no more _need_ for it because Laura’s so wet she can barely remember her own name and she doesn’t know if it’s that all her careful planning has fallen completely to the wayside or that it’s Kara in particular touching her or some mindfrak blend of the two, but she’s finding it easier by the moment to let go of everything but how deliciously good it feels to be beneath her like this.

 

“How long has it been, Laura?”

 

She doesn’t want to remember, doesn’t want to think about it. She moans low and loud and screws her eyes shut, and Kara laughs along.

 

“Too long,” she says, too earnestly. There’s a gentler kiss to her jaw, but the hand between her legs works with the same fiery intensity, and she thanks whoever she can think of for that. “Don’t stop, please.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it, sweetheart.”

 

——

 

Kara is guilty of having imagined this before.

 

She isn’t sure there’s a man (or woman) throughout the whole of the _Galactica_ that isn’t. When the president comes across with her stilettos and pencil skirts and perfect, _perfect_ hair, she’d bet anything they all wish they could do exactly what Kara’s doing now, and she takes more comfort than she should in the thought that she’s the only one that can, the only one that can make Madam President sound like _that._

 

“Harder,” Roslin whispers, and she obliges happily, high on the sheer power of it when she lets this choked, passionate _yes_ go unhindered.

 

It’s obvious she’s close — the controlled, almost dainty feel to her moans has disappeared entirely, and she’s stopped trying to put on any sort of show, rocking into Kara’s hand without care for aesthetics. Now it’s a steady string of almost-thoughts (oh, yes, Lieutenant, like _that-_ frak, don’t stop, yes, please, _just like that…_ ) and Kara is hard pressed to appear unaffected.

 

“Come on,” she says, and it’s more breathless than she would prefer but she doubts Roslin has the wherewithal to notice anyway. “Come on, Laura, come on.”

 

Deliriously, she thinks of rolling a hard six, thinks she might understand what it means.

 

Roslin _comes on_.

 

——

 

After, they don’t cuddle.

 

Laura won’t ask that. She doesn’t expect it, convinces herself she doesn’t want it. Kara’s given her enough already. She catches her breath with a hand slung across her face and unwittingly lets the waiting stretch into awkward.

 

“I can…”

 

“No.”

 

It’s more fervent than she thought. She looks up, and there’s so much in Kara’s eyes she can’t begin to tell it all apart. Laura half expects her to be licking her fingers, doesn’t know how to feel when she isn’t.

 

“I mean- no thank you, sir.”

 

“Next time,” she promises. It pairs with a satisfied smile, and she tries not to notice how Kara’s eyes light up, how very like Lee she is in the wonder of it.

 

She understands so much about Kara in that moment. It’s uncomfortable for both of them, and she coughs, adjusts her lapels.

 

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

 

“Madam President.”

 

There are a lot of phantoms in the room with them as Kara nods her acceptance, falls into rhythmic step and _away_.

 

Laura tries valiantly not to think about asking her to stay.


End file.
